


Hollow

by ZenithMaguire



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Awkwardness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, Internalised ableism, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Slash, Self-Hatred, some stalkerliness on harold's side
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-08-16 10:51:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8099347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZenithMaguire/pseuds/ZenithMaguire
Summary: John can't sleep. It's been a while since Harold had to tuck anyone in.





	

This time it wasn’t blood loss making Reese look pale and drawn, that at least was a welcome novelty.

‘For goodness’ sake, please, Mr Reese. Tell me what I can do to help.’

Reese was making a frankly pitiful effort to adopt his annoyingly habitual smirk. Harold sighed. John was standing determinedly, ashen, circles under his eyes, a rogue patch of stubble that he'd missed shaving. It wasn’t the first time Finch had felt a pang of conscience, wondering if he had been cynical to tell Reese he didn’t need treatment to deal with all the hells he’d been dragged through. Of course, he had been telling Reese, perhaps opportunistically, what he wanted to hear, what Finch had thought would land, as it were. And at least he hadn’t lost him back to the anonymity of the streets, or worse, but even as he had said it, looking at that tired, guarded face, his speech had felt rehearsed, disingenuous. He had considered the ends to be worth the means. Still, how could he go back now, say ‘I was wrong, you’re hurt and you need help’? The work was important to Reese, helpful, perhaps even healing, but he couldn’t continue like this any longer. And how could he really heal if he was being used, worn down like an object, without any more care than his previous employers had shown? His slip had been at that first meeting: not a lie, but insufficient consideration, insufficient awareness of the man to whom he spoke, of his capacity to absorb more horror than anyone should ever have to.

Harold reached, very tentatively, for his arm, and John wobbled a little at the touch, or possibly he was just swaying already. 

‘Honestly Finch, it's not like you get much more sleep than me.’

Harold's face tightened a little. He couldn't very well admit to all the sleepless nights when he'd let himself check on John, using his phone camera or earbud or even the cameras in the street to reassure himself that John was resting safely: lying with his face softened, his limbs slack and sprawled, his breathing deep and slow and rhythmic. It had only ever been just for a moment. He didn't let himself linger at this window into Reese’s privacy. He didn't let himself admit that he wanted to; it was concern for an employee. A very valued employee. None of which had the least bearing on the matter at hand.

‘I am sleeping as much as I am used to sleeping, and I am able to function. Moreover, my role in our work requires far less physical exertion than yours. You, however, are currently a danger to yourself, and consequently to our mission: even, potentially, to me.’

This was low, and Harold knew it. He saw the look on Reese's face and relented somewhat. 

‘Perhaps if you tell me more about what the problem is?’ Harold said, sitting back at his desk. John lowered himself resignedly into his chair, careful not to look too much like he was collapsing into it.

‘I don't know, Finch…’

‘It really is important, Mr Reese. I can't let you keep on going out there with your condition deteriorating through exhaustion. Your reaction times, your motor coordination and your judgement are all going to be sub par if you do not rest. And a few catnaps in your chair here are hopelessly inadequate as a long term solution.’

‘Ok, ok. You're right, I just don't. It’s nothing that’s happened. I don't know how to explain it. I start to drift off and then…’ he shrugged, horribly self-conscious.

Harold was looking at him, sympathetic and patient, reading him. John was so sick of it he wanted to cry.

‘I just suddenly feel like there's something, some danger, I don't know. Something in the dark, in the empty room. And then I'm wide awake. And it happens every time. It's easier here for some reason but even in the crash room I can't seem to doze off for more than a few minutes.’

It was ridiculous: he'd slept among the homeless under an old blanket, beyond fear, beyond care. And now he spent every night clean, warm and well-fed, between clean linens, shaking and defeated. He didn't want to try to explain the way his apartment spread around him at night, cavernous over his empty bed, the expanses of walls and ceilings and floors shifting outwards into a desert, a void of silence. His ears would strain for every sound that drifted up from the street, anything to drown out the heartbeat from a chest that felt empty too. He was no one at the centre of nothing; if anyone ever came to judge him they would find that quickly enough. Even the air felt thin as he breathed faster and shallower, not knowing why he was still breathing. And then he would sit up and turn on the light. Then turn it off again. It made no difference: his heart thumped meaningless as a drumbeat.

John raised his palms hopelessly, feeling pathetically, shamefully distressed at adding another burden to Finch's life, at being a malfunctioning piece of equipment when Finch needed someone capable. He wasn’t even good enough for this anymore, for this one thing that gave him some reason, some kind of identity. Rusting down to worthlessness by his own stupidity.

Harold looked like he was calculating, running over a sequence of hypotheses, attempting to find the best fit. Of course he knew the problem with Reese was that, feeling he deserved nothing, he would ask for nothing. Harold recognised stubbornness, even if it was differently motivated than his own. And naturally the impossible man would give and give until there was nothing left, never requiring anything until he was half dead, when suddenly he needed, what exactly? Like a child he'd overspent his energy, given out too much of himself, and reached the point of overwrought fatigue and distress. Harold had supplied Reese with every creature comfort that seemed necessary to him, and provided an income that gave access to considerably more. But in spite of his heartbreaking gratitude for his new role in the world, peace was evidently eluding him. In point of fact, altering the nature of one's relationship to society could conceivably strengthen aspects of one's personality that were suppressed during trauma. Every day he spent with Reese he found it harder truly to comprehend how this same man had done the things he knew he had. And yet for some time he had stayed well enough to carry out his work for the CIA, and did so again once Harold had found him. If Reese was no longer able to dissociate his emotional self from the ruthlessness of his service, wasn't that Harold's own doing? 

Now it was surely his responsibility, his duty to reintegrate...not Reese with the world but Reese with his self. Harold was acutely aware of Reese's lack of social connections, just as he was painfully aware of the necessity to minimise his own. And yet this could hardly be new to the former operative? But then he had gone from his existence within the military to living within a team, however poisonous his partnerships had been. Even living as an indigent, he had been part of a group, however loosely defined. A pack, viewing it fancifully. Harold was aware of the effects of institutionalisation in a broader sense, had had reason to fear such experiences himself. He also knew that experiments had demonstrated that primates had a profound need for social contact with their own kind to prevent severe psychological disturbance. If he recalled correctly, one such piece of research had involved a soft object present to comfort infant animals separated (inhumanely, in his opinion) from their mothers. He recalled one of Nathan and Olivia's parties, and a very small Will dragging him away from the crowd, insisting that Uncle Harold read his favourite book to him before he slept. He had dozed off almost immediately, to Harold's astonishment. All Will’s ever-shifting enthusiasm, his capacity for inquisitiveness, mischief, seemingly boundless vitality transformed in a moment to the total oblivion of innocence: two sides of the same page. For a moment he'd looked down at the child's tiny face in surprise, then went downstairs, rejoined the hubbub of the gathering. Harold threw off the upwelling emotion, the bittersweet memory. Of course Mr Reese was far past infancy, but some switches are buried very deep in the mind.

‘I think we'll try something. Obviously medication is not ideal because it can cause drowsiness as an after-effect. The best solution is to find a way to induce a natural sleep.’ 

‘But I can't,' said John, a little squeaky, and broke off in embarrassment.

‘Mr Reese. The back room, please.’ Whatever this experiment was going to be, Finch didn’t look like he was about to be dissuaded.

The crash room - usually this was Harold's space, unless Reese was hurt or had been especially overstretched. Normally he would doze in a chair or spread out on one of the long seats that had been part of the library's original furniture. But this room was where Finch could haul himself when he was too exhausted or pained to go elsewhere to rest, a quiet and modestly-proportioned office cleared of old desks and filing cabinets, clean and stocked with spare clothing, plus a scattering of the usual leaf-litter of books and electronics that trailed Harold everywhere. John secretly loved it and tended to avoid setting foot inside, just peering in through the doorway sometimes when he went past and saw the door open.

Harold picked up a book from a shelf and strutted off; John followed meekly, slightly alarmed when Harold removed his jacket and tie, unfastened his sleeves and vest, and removed his shoes.

‘Finch. What are you doing…’

‘I am aiming to make sitting on this less than ideal mattress marginally more comfortable, Mr Reese. I suggest that you do the same. Remove anything you don't wish to sleep in. You may take out your earpiece as well, and give me your phone. And if you need to go to the bathroom, do go ahead.’

While Finch propped himself at one side of the bed by the small reading lamp, on top of the bedclothes, leaning against the headboard with the book in his lap, John shook his head, and stripped to his undershirt, shorts and socks, casting a quick glance at Finch to make sure he wasn't enjoying his discomfort too much. Harold's gaze was carefully averted but his composure was complete and distinctly irritating. 

‘Uh...’

‘Get under the covers and lie down.’

‘Finch, this is...’

Weird? Inappropriate? Humiliating? John of all people had no excuse: this certainly wasn't at the top of the list of the weirdest situations he'd been in; it wouldn't even make it onto the first page, actually… but it was twisting around in his gut somehow, turning over some deep-bedded rock that resisted the attempt. On the other hand there probably wasn't any way of derailing Harold once he'd resolved on a course of action, not without offending him, and John was so tired.

‘Simply lie down quietly Mr Reese, I would like to get on with my reading. I will take any calls that come in, and you will be free to relax in a safe environment. As safe as is humanly possible, at least.’

Mechanically, John did as he was told, finally electing to lie down on his side facing Harold's hip, watching him turn the pages as he read in silence. Serve him right if it made him uncomfortable, he thought, knowing it probably wouldn’t anyway. What on earth did Finch think this was going to achieve? He wanted to ask him but decided to stay quiet instead. Not for the first time he felt quietly tickled by Finch's bizarrely hands-on approach to being an employer. It was more than he was used to, a lot more. He looked up. Finch wasn't looking at him, simply scanning the pages and turning, scanning and turning. John watched his eyes moving along the lines, the twitch in his mouth. 

The pursed lips quirked up when something entertained him. Finch’s shirt was rising and falling with the movement of his chest. John thought about stirring, to see the blue eyes shift to him, but really he was happy just to leave Finch in peace. God knows Finch deserved some peace. If anyone needed some peace and quiet it was Finch. He shouldn't bother Finch. He should just lie quiet and do what Finch had told him. Harold would want him to be quiet. Harold needed to rest. He deserved it. He deserved the best of everything. Harold deserved everything…

Harold closed the book and placed it down on the table by the lamp, then pulled off his glasses and rubbed his forehead and the bridge of his nose. His little essay had been a success. John had reclined obediently and descended into sleep, twitching at first, muttering once, then growing steadily more placid. Harold had needed to pull the bedclothes down a little to make sure he had enough air, bunching them up to form a little cove under John's face; John had curled up around himself, bending forward into a foetal position until his head met with the resistance of Harold's thigh through the blankets. Since then he had subsided into apparent peace. Harold replaced his glasses, looked down at him, repressing an urge to smooth the hair across John’s temple, idly wishing he could leaf through Reese's mind, see what was inscribing itself on the inside of his creased, parchment-thin eyelids.

He thought of his own loneliness when he left his father behind, how it felt like there was nothing to hold on to, how he was slipping, grief and guilt and no one to tell. He had felt as if there were nothing around him, in spite of the teachers and students surrounding him at college; he might as well have been the last person alive. He remembered the sheer barren emptiness of a world where he wasn’t anything in particular to anybody, a chasm that had only reopened after the bombing: that period when he had learned how little difference it made whether he ate or not, whether he cried or not. No one was watching; no one would remember. And then Nathan had befriended him, had come to his rescue, as he sometimes melodramatically thought at the time. And whatever disappointments had tarnished that ideal, he remembered the simple joys of those times: the two of them, young and comfortable with each other, slouched or sprawled or crammed at a desk together: the tiny intimacies that had meant so much to him, a hand on his shoulder, a smile, Nathan’s way of teasing him: companionship. The luxury he had denied himself for so long. And now another stranger was there next to him every day, forever unknowable, locked in his own memories and fears, whether rescuer or rescued, but always within reach. Harold was shockingly, excruciatingly aware that Reese's solitude and vulnerability lay open before his feet like a snare. 

Oh dear. Enough of that. He had always known this wouldn't be easy, and he had made an art of hiding himself in plain sight. No amount of sympathy or self-recrimination could shake out of him those lessons of caution, constant caution. Even caution against his own desire to give what he had once so desperately received. Well, especially that. Involuntarily Harold remembered Nathan opening his eyes, catching Harold watching as he slept, the lazy smile and stretch as he invited Harold's helpless adoration.

Oh well. Harold needed the bathroom, and a cup of tea. This meant carefully levering himself off the bed as quietly as possible. Sitting motionless had made him a little awkward and stiff but he moved slowly, wincing slightly at the ever-uncomfortable stages between sitting and standing. Looking back he saw Reese still blissfully undisturbed. The lines of his face were softened, his long lashes making him look faintly childlike. Harold flicked off the lamp and paced stealthily out, leaving the door ajar behind him. ‘Sleep well, Mr Reese,’ he muttered to the empty hall. 

John woke up, unaccustomedly groggy, not sure where he was or what the time was. Finch, he thought, then realised he'd somehow twisted diagonally across the space where Harold had been sitting. The reading light was out but there was enough of a glow from the other end of the hallway that he could scan the room easily. For a moment he wondered if he was alone, then heard music drifting up from Finch's workspace, just audible with the door open: something classical he knew but couldn't name. He scratched his stomach, unkinked his neck; the covers were wrapped snugly around him and there was a large glass of water by the bed, still cool. God he was thirsty. He sat up and drained the glass, placed it down and stretched mightily. He turned over, snaked his limbs over cool expanses of smooth cloth, and shut his eyes again.


End file.
